


Important

by Naughty_Yorick



Series: The Alphabet Game [9]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Depression, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Love Confessions, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:48:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27252922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naughty_Yorick/pseuds/Naughty_Yorick
Summary: If Geralt couldn’t stop the beast, then he had failed as a witcher, and he would die, gladly. He had served his purpose for long enough, and he was no longer needed. It would be like going to sleep.A mind-altering fiend makes Geralt confront the dark thoughts he tries so hard to ignore. When Jaskier finds him, injured and hopeless, he's determined to make Geralt realise just how important he is to him: even if he won't believe him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: The Alphabet Game [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1983026
Comments: 46
Kudos: 337





	Important

**Author's Note:**

> I challenged myself to write a fic for every letter of the alphabet. I took each letter, plugged it into a random word generator and wrote a fic based on whichever word it gave me. This letter is "I", and the word is "Important"! See more of my Alphabet Challenge on my tumblr, [here!](https://a-kind-of-merry-war.tumblr.com/post/632799468062916608/alphabet-game-master-post)

Worth was a funny thing. A Witcher’s worth - such as it was - was gauged by the swing of his sword, the power of his blows, the efficacy of his strikes. When a witcher was no longer adept for the hunt, then he no longer had that worth. Geralt wasn’t being flippant when he’d told Jaskier that Witchers didn’t retire. They fought, they weakened, they died. There was a simplicity to it that he rarely found elsewhere.

He took on contracts, hunted, fought, _won_ , and moved on, his purse heavier than it had been before. Years on the Path, decades of training and practice, had honed his skills and made him an expert.

Geralt didn’t rush into these sorts of things - he wasn’t the sort to tear through the forest, sword drawn, running head first into danger. He would plot and plan and track and _then_ , only when everything was ready, would he attack. He would prepare himself beforehand - his sword oiled, the required potions either already swallowed down or clinking in the little pouch on his hip. He would be well-rested, energised, his hand already half-formed around Quen before even entering a monster’s territory.

Despite all of this, Jaskier _still_ told him to be careful, still fussed over him before a hunt. He had - on more than one occasion - asked Geralt to reconsider. Geralt had found this absurd, at first, and then a little insulting. There was nothing to reconsider. He was a _Witcher_ , for fuck’s sake. This was what he did. This was what he was _made_ to do.

So off he’d go, sword in hand, senses sharp, following a trail of blood, clawed footprints, tufts of fur caught in trees. And when he returned - sometimes fine, sometimes a little bruised, sometimes limping and dripping blood - Jaskier would be there waiting for him.

Jaskier hadn’t always worried so much. At first, he had been a little lackadaisical about it: he seemed to take it for granted that Geralt would survive whatever the contract threw at him. Geralt could swan back into a village coated in guts and Jaskier would barely look up.

Then something changed. Geralt wasn’t sure what it was, exactly - but there had been a moment where something had simply - _altered_. Like the spinning of a coin on a tabletop or the turn of a heel midway through the dance, a step taken to the wrong beat.

And the half-hearted sureness that Jaskier had radiated was suddenly gone. He fluttered, he hovered, he waited for Geralt to return and Geralt could _see_ how long he’d waited in his tousled hair and red, sleepless eyes.

Geralt swung out of the way of the fiend chasing him down and wondered if Jaskier would greet him with red eyes when he returned.

There was a roar, and his sword deflected with a _scrape_ from the fiend’s antlers, and he wondered then if he’d even see those eyes again - red-rimmed or otherwise.

The fiend lurched towards him, ramming into him with its side, and Geralt’s feet skidded along the wet grass. He stumbled, throwing out his arms to regain his balance, and the beast sharply turned, charging back at him from the other direction.

He dodged swiftly, but this time it connected with his shoulder and the sudden jolt sent his sword flying from his grasp, embedding itself tip first in the grass several feet away. He swore, then ducked and rolled beneath the fiend’s head as it powered towards him once more, scrabbling to reach the sword.

He misjudged the movement - either too slow or too high - and the fiend’s thick snout collided with his chest, flinging him across the clearing and smashing into a wide tree. His head jerked back, colliding with the bark with a _crack_ that jolted all the way down his spine. The fiend rounded on him with a snort as he struggled to sit up, black spots popping in front of his eyes. He raised his arm, trying to concentrate his spinning head enough to cast a sign, when the fiend froze.

 _Fuck_. Perhaps Jaskier had been right to worry after all.

There was a terrible, sticky noise as the beast’s third eye slowly slid open, the lid sweeping horizontally across to reveal the swirling red and purple iris beneath. Geralt’s head was still swimming, the pain in his nape throbbing, and there was nothing he could do, _nothing_ , as the red and purple gaze fixed on him, pinning him, reaching towards him -

It was like hot water in his lungs, like his head was suddenly full of damp cotton. The urge to fight slid away from him, his signs suddenly forgotten, the sword - within reaching distance - unimportant. He felt tired, so tired, not just in that moment pressed against the tree, his head pounding, but _forever_.

He was so tired of being tired.

Witchers didn’t retire. They fought, they weakened, they died. He had weakened. Dying - letting himself die - was just the next step on the Path. The final step. It felt easy - it waited for him with open arms. Not only that, but he realised he _wanted_ it, too. Now the survival instinct had fallen away, there was nothing stopping him. It would be easy and rational and _right_ to lie against the tree and simply wait for the fiend to finish him off. It would be quick. Quicker than slowing and tiring on a battlefield fighting for some king who didn’t even know his name.

Geralt of Rivia - a fake name for a half-real man - could simply slip away into the forest and never return. It was just, and right, and more so it was what he deserved. If he couldn’t stop the fiend, then he had failed as a witcher, and he would die, gladly. He had served his purpose for long enough, and he was no longer needed.

It would be like going to sleep. He didn’t even need to fight.

No one wept when a witcher died, he knew. His brothers might be sad, for a while, but they knew this final reality as well as he did. To weep and wail and grieve would be as futile as mourning a broken sword or a piece of worn-out armour. They all knew where the Path led.

His head was full of red and purple fog, but it had never been so clear. It was like a shining light, a clear pool of crystally water, inviting and cool. He could slip under and keep his head down until the bubbles stopped.

And, _oh_ , how sweet it would be.

The fiend gazed at him with that tempting purple-red stare, puffs of steam clouding from its nostrils. It lowered its head, crowned with antlers and forest debris and blood.

 _Do it_ , he thought. _Do it_.

It pawed at the ground with its hooves, and snorted again. It twisted its huge head from side to side.

Somewhere far away - or possibly right by his side, he couldn’t tell - there was a noise. Breaking branches, rustling leaves.

The fiend charged.

And something dropped from the trees above and landed on its neck, straddling it, and there was a flash of silver and the fiend was bellowing and screaming, thrown off course, trying to buck the thing off its back with a horrible roar and -

 _Jaskier_.

Jaskier had his legs clamped hard around the fiends neck, riding it like an obscene horse, and the silver dagger Geralt had given him so long ago was protruding from the eye in the middle of the beast’s head and Jaskier was twisting it - twisting and tugging and _shouting_ \- and with a noise like rotting fruit exploding, blood spurted from its face and it stopped - and sagged - and collapsed to the forest floor with a crash that made the trees themselves shake.

Geralt tried to stand, but the horrible pain in his head was more apparent than ever, and he couldn’t get his legs to work beneath him. Jaskier slid from the dead fiend’s back, red and painting, and hurried to his side.

“Geralt,” he huffed, rubbing his bloodied hands on his doublet before placing them firmly on Geralt’s shoulders, “What were you _doing_ , Geralt?”

Geralt stared right through him.

“Dying,” he said, simply.

~

To Jaskier, it felt like an age before he’d finally dragged Geralt back to the inn and the room they’d been sharing while he hunted down the creature that had been decimating livestock and murdering townsfolk. He’d slid from the back of that beast - he wasn’t even sure what it _was_ \- and all that coursing adrenaline had turned to acidic panic as he’d finally seen the state that Geralt was in.

He’d refused help. He’d spat out the mouthful of Swallow that Jaskier had tried to get past his lips, both of them covered in blood and muck and shimmering healing potion. Jaskier had suggested he meditate, just for a moment, and he’d shook his head at him and _roared_ as the movement jolted his injured head and spine.

Geralt’s eyes were wrong. Not the typical blackness Jaskier was now used to after a big fight - the result of drinking so many potions - but unfocused and glazed. They were fogged pinkly around the edges. The monster had done something to him, Jaskier was sure, but he had no idea what.

It took a full hour of cajoling before that fog began to lift and finally, Jaskier was able to force a potion down his throat.

After that, it was easier.

He heaved him up, still tingling with adrenaline, and together they made their way back unsteadily to the inn on the edge of town.

For the first time, Jaskier found himself wishing for blessed silence. Every word that came out of Geralt’s mouth was either a battle - telling Jaskier to leave off, to let him be - or a simple, heart-breaking plea.

 _Let me die,_ he said, over and over. _Just leave me. Let me die. Please_.

Jaskier wouldn’t. He refused. And so he battled back, hauling up the stubborn witcher and half-dragging him across the fields.

Geralt was a little more lucid by the time they arrived back at the inn, and Jaskier was grateful that the landlady was nowhere to be seen as they made their way messily up the stairs, leaving footprints in their wake. He swung them both into the room and Geralt slumped against the bed, blinking.

“Geralt?” He said, squatting in front of him. “You in there?”

Geralt looked up at him, frowning, and - there, _yes_ \- the spark of recognition. “Jaskier?”

Finally, Jaskier could breathe.

“It’s me,” he said, “you’re back in our room. You’re alright.” He tilted his head, thinking. “Alright-ish. I don’t know if you can take another potion, you need to rest…”

He shuffled around him nervously as Geralt tried to move, wincing. “Armour…” he grunted, his voice still a little sluggish.

“Right! Of course…”

Slowly, Jaskier helped Geralt undress. The skin of his nape was mottled with dark, wine coloured bruises that spread across his shoulders and down his back. There was thick, clotted blood at the back of his head which trickled downwards, soaked into his shirt and running down his back. A blow like that would have killed a human instantly.

Jaskier winced as he pulled Geralt’s shirt away. Where the skin wasn’t bruised, Jaskier could see his blackened veins, coursing with toxicity.

No wonder he was struggling - his body was fighting toxic potions alongside his injuries, concussion, and whatever the monster had done to his mind.

“We need to clean you up,” Jaskier muttered, lightly pushing aside Geralt’s matted hair so he could better see the wound on the back of his head. “Just the worst of it, you can bathe later…”

There was a jug of fresh enough water next to the basin in their room, and Jaskier grabbed it along with his pack, pulling out the linen scraps he’d been saving for these kinds of emergencies. There was a little salve in there too - one of Geralt’s various mixtures designed to reduce the risk of infection, and he combined it with some of the water on the cloth before gently getting to work on Geralt’s skin.

He started just above Geralt’s spine, easing up his neck in little circles, wiping away dirt and blood. Geralt was compliant beneath him, and when he reached his hairline he barely even reacted, just shifted beneath Jaskier’s hands. He carefully pulled back the white hair, now streaked with red, to see the gash nestled below the curve of his skull.

The blood was slow, already half-clotted. It should have been stitched, really, but the dose of Swallow and the hour or so back in the forest had meant the wound was already sealing itself closed. It would leave a nasty scar, that much Jaskier could be sure of. He cleaned it as best he could, pulling strands of hair out of the way, untangling it.

Finally, the wound was acceptably clean. The rest of Geralt was decidedly less so, but he would do. Jaskier noted to send for a bath later.

“How do you feel?” He said, foolishly.

“Like shit.”

Jaskier swallowed. “Fair,” he said. “That was a stupid question. Let’s get you into bed…”

Together, they manoeuvred Geralt onto the narrow bed. Jaskier quickly tossed aside the pillow so he could lie flat, without any further strain on his neck. He hadn’t seen Geralt look so haggard in years: his skin was pallid and sweaty, with little tendrils of that inky black blood marking where his veins snaked beneath it. He was still covered in grime and blood - only some of it the fiend’s. Fuck the bath: Jaskier would need to reimburse the landlady for the cost of the sheets when they left.

“Okay,” he said, when Geralt was as comfortable as he was ever going to get, “are you going to, ah…” he twiddled his fingers at him, “do the healing thing? Meditate the broken bones away or whatever it is you do?”

“Hmm.”

“Right. Yes. Good. I’ll just…” He trailed off, aware that Geralt was barely even listening to him. “I’ll just wait.”

Geralt had been doing this for longer than Jaskier had been alive, he suspected, but he still liked to linger before moving away. The first time he’d seen Geralt do it he’d become convinced that the witcher had simply _died_ , with how still and silent he’d suddenly become, his breathing barely even noticeable. He knew now that this was just another _witcher thing_ , like the eyes or the signs or the heightened senses.

It still worried him, though. So he watched as Geralt’s breathing slowed and the unnatural stillness overtook him.

When he was sure Geralt had fully slipped into the meditation, he stood and took the armour and swords across to the little wash basin. He began to clean, wiping away blood and gore and dirt till both blades and buckles shone. Next he took Geralt’s potion bag, quietly removing the empty bottles and lining them up on the little table. They weren’t labelled, but he could judge by the shape of the bottles, the colour of the beads of liquid clinging to the inside and - when he held them to his nose - their tart, acrid smells, what they had once contained.

He grabbed his notebook and one by one wrote down each spent potion, how many of each. When he was done, he washed the bottles too. Next he moved on to Geralt’s pack, trawling through his little bundles of herbs and various alchemy components. Jaskier had taken it upon himself to write down the exact ingredients needed for Geralt’s potions years ago, partly as a precaution and partly through sheer curiosity, and the list had proven useful several times over.

He fumbled through the little boxes and bags and bottles, working out which ingredients would be needed to restock the potions Geralt had drained while hunting the beast, noting down the ones which were in low supply or missing entirely. Several of them were fairly rare - ones that could only be bought for a fabulous price or prized from the ribcage of a felled monster - but there were several herbs and flowers that he could acquire without too much difficulty. Some might even grow nearby - he knew what they all looked like, now.

He wrote down the missing components, tore out the page and shoved it into his pocket. He peered at Geralt, still deep in meditation on the bed. He didn’t want to leave him, but he knew that if he stayed trapped in the tiny room with him for however many hours it took him to heal, he’d go mad with worry. He needed to move, to busy himself.

With a final check of the prone witcher - still breathing, still unmoving and silent - he grabbed his satchel and coin purse and headed out.

There was a herbalist’s hut not too far from the town, and it would have been easy to take the brief walk there to pick up what he needed then return to Geralt within an hour or so. But Jaskier found himself walking in the opposite direction, out across the fields, scanning the pastures and hedgerows for likely looking flowers.

Jaskier was used to this, now, and the familiar shapes of leaves and petals stood out against the grass. Hellebore, honeysuckle, white myrtle, even blowballs all colourful against the yellow-green fields, begging to be picked. He could have purchased the components in a fifth of the time - less, realistically - but there was something calming about collecting them himself, his fingers sticky with sap instead of blood.

He walked about a mile out, shuffling slowly though fields, twisting through hedgerows. His clothes kept catching on brambles but he barely noticed, eyes down, looking for the next bloom to pick.

Time passed around him, and he barely noticed. His feet were beginning to ache and the tips of his fingers were beginning to dry out, pricked by thorns dozens of times. The sun had begun to set, the sky turning pink. He needed to go back, but something was stopping him. When he returned to the inn, made his way up those narrow stairs to their shared room on the first floor, there would not be a man waiting for him but a conversation. A conversation he knew he’d need to have.

Jaskier was struck, suddenly, with the image of Geralt awakening from his meditative state to find the room cold and empty. To open his eyes, expecting to see Jaskier, but instead to see nothing.

Jaskier froze, his fingers halfway towards a yellow blowball. If Geralt woke up, alone, and all he could remember was begging Jaskier to let him die, he’d assume that Jaskier had simply left him. It would only further those thoughts, give them weight and reason.

He abandoned the unplucked blowballs and ran back towards the town, ignoring his aching feet.

~

Geralt slid, slowly, from the grip of meditation. When he was injured, or his blood turning toxic, he allowed his body to rest for as long as it needed. For once, he didn’t force himself awake, pulling himself back before he was ready.

His eyes were still closed as he took a deep breath, feeling fresh, cool air fill his lungs. The grimy sluggishness that wrapped around him when his blood was full of toxins had gone, and he felt lighter, less like he could feel every stitch on the sheet, every strand of hair on his head. The ache in the back of his head had gone too, the pain now more of a dull twinge than a near-fatal concussion. His back was still stiff, but that was likely more the result of lying on his back without moving for several hours rather than any serious injury.

Most importantly, the fog that had been clinging to his thoughts since the fiend had stared him down with that huge, unblinking eye had finally gone.

The fog had lifted, but the memory remained - the thoughts that he’d given into so easily while pressed against the tree, feeling blood seep down the back of his shirt.

 _Fuck_.

Geralt didn’t like to dwell on those thoughts too much, or too often. He carried them around with him like an inevitability, trying not to let them surface. But the fiend had taken away any sense of self preservation he had, the vague notion that he needed to keep himself alive. He’d given into it so _easily_ , he realised now - like slipping into a warm bath.

Or icy water.

He’d grown used to pretending. To others, to himself. It wasn’t exactly a topic that was broached very often, aside from bragging about near-death fights with his brothers or a hummed agreement to one of Jaskier’s shocked cries - “Fuck, Geralt, that was a close one!” People - humans, especially - didn’t like to be reminded of their own encroaching mortality. Geralt had accepted his long ago, but he’d learnt that most had not.

He lay on the hard bed, eyes closed, feeling himself come back. It was always like this after a long meditation, and the longer he’d been under the longer it could take to return. And so he floated, feeling his fingers twitch back to life and his heart beat a little faster, trapped with those thoughts.

It had been so easy to choose to die. As if it really _was_ a choice. With the fiend’s hypnosis gone, he couldn’t figure out his own thoughts. Did he want it? He couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter, regardless: not until the next hunt, and the _next_ hunt was unlikely to include a mind-altering relict, so it would no longer be a problem. He would never willingly lose a fight. It was unthinkable - it went against everything he’d been taught, and everything he believed.

A lost fight would mean more lost lives, it would mean further chaos for whatever poor unfortunates had acquired his unusual services.

That _fucking_ fiend. It had brought all those little thoughts wriggling to the surface, like earthworms after rain. And now he had to wait for them to burrow back, make themselves hidden again.

It was useless just lying on the bed, soaking in those dangerous little notions. He opened his eyes and immediately winced against the light. It was late in the day, but even the low twilight sneaking through the window was too much for his sensitive eyes so soon from waking.

He shifted on the bed with a little grumble, and then there was the sound of footsteps, the _shff_ of fabric being moved, and then the room went dark. He blinked, eyes adjusting, no longer straining, and spotted Jaskier standing by the window, the thin curtains in his hand.

“Sorry,” he said, with an apologetic smile, “forgot about the light thing…”

Geralt sat up stiffly and glanced around the room. He took in his armour and swords, leant against the wall, now free of blood and grime. The empty potion bottles, neatly lined up on the rickety table and the scribbled notes beside them.

“What…” His voice was hoarse, and he coughed, trying to clear his throat. Before he could continue to speak, there was a carved mug in his hand full of clear water. Jaskier smiled at him, nervously, and he drank. He hadn’t realised how thirsty he was until the mug was nearly drained.

“Thank you,” he said, licking his lips. “You cleaned the swords?”

Jaskier glanced to the corner where they rested against the wall. “And the armour,” he said.

“And those?” He nodded towards the bottles on the table, his neck able to freely move once more.

“Oh! The empty bottles in your bag,” Jaskier said, quickly. “I noted down the ones you’d used up and cleaned them out. You need more tallow,” he added, after a thoughtful pause, “and drowner brain.”

Geralt swung his legs from the bed and stretched, feeling his limbs coming back to life, the familiar pins and needles sensation dissipating.

“Amongst other things,” he groaned, shifting his shoulders from side to side. “Honeysuckle, celandine, myrtle…”

It was an extensive list, he knew. He’d never usually let his supplies drop so low, but he’d been inundated with contracts these past few weeks and he barely had time to sleep, let alone traipse about picking flowers. The extra coin would grant him the luxury of visiting the herbalist before they left town.

“Nah you don’t,” Jaskier moved away, taking Geralt’s empty cup with him, his fingers twitching. “I went out while you were meditating and got as much as I could. tThings that _don’t_ require ripping a drowner’s brain out through its ears or taking on a pack of wolves. Anything where the biggest risk is thorns.” He stopped, twisting the mug in his hands. “There were a few bits I couldn’t find,” he admitted, head to one side, “but we can call in on the herbalist before we go.”

“Right.”

Jaskier continued to fettle about the room while Geralt got his bearings, standing and stretching out his aching arms and legs. He was used to Jaskier taking on little jobs while he was healing after a fight - perhaps scraping the worst of the blood from his armour or furiously scrubbing guts from a shirt he’d decided was worth salvaging - but never to such detail before. Geralt was aware that he’d been locked in deep meditation for several hours, but if Jaskier had been bored he simply would have packed his lute and gone off to the tavern in town, not taken it upon himself to restock his supplies.

It was a soft, thoughtful gesture. Affectionate. Geralt felt a little stab of guilt at the state Jaskier had found him in: half dead and stubbornly refusing help. He suspected, not for the first time, that he didn’t deserve such kindness.

Perhaps it was pity. He’d probably frightened Jaskier with his melancholic talk and now he was trying to help him - not that there was much he could _do_ beyond cleaning equipment and picking herbs. Pity was worse than affection.

“How’re you feeling?” Said Jaskier, cautiously.

“Stiff,” he said, “but better. A lot better.”

Jaskier was holding something back, he could tell. He was usually full of chatter, but now he was stiffly silent.

“What is it, Jaskier?”

“Nothing.”

“You only keep your mouth shut when something’s actually bothering you. What is it?”

Jaskier shot him a quick, nervous look then walked across the room and sat, wearily on the bed. Geralt mirrored the movement, letting himself drop back down next to him, their shoulders so close they were nearly touching. Jaskier steadied himself with a breath.

“When I found you it was… it was awful,” he stuttered, his fingers twiddling as they always did, “just _lying_ there, Geralt.” He paused, and Geralt could sense him peering at him out of the corner of his eye. “Were you _really_ just going to let it kill you?”

It was useless to lie. “I was.”

“But _why_? You always fight, that’s what you _do…_ ”

“It felt rational.”

“Rational? But it would have ripped you to pieces!”

“It would have,” he agreed.

“And you were fine with that, were you?”

Geralt took a breath before turning to face him. “I was. I’m a _witcher_. It’s kill or die. And… I was tired, Jaskier. So tired. Like I said: rational. The long sleep…”

“You could have turned it around. You usually do.”

“Perhaps,” Geralt shrugged. “Or not.”

“But you always fight…”

“Not this time. Didn’t even want to…” He spotted Jaskier’s shocked expression and shrugged. “fiends are powerful. Hypnotic gaze.”

“You’re saying that _thing_ put those thoughts in your head? It told you to let yourself die?“ Jaskier shuddered. “How awful.”

For a moment, Geralt didn’t know how best to respond. He considered lying - just to save Jaskier’s feelings, so he wouldn’t have to see that hurt expression again.

“No,” he said, finally.

“I… wait, _no_?” Jaskier frowned at him, “You mean…” He didn’t need to finish that sentence, his lips moving wordlessly as he worked it out. There was that expression again - the one Geralt couldn’t stand, cracking his face like smashed glass. “Oh.”

“Fiends are _powerful_ , but they’re no more intelligent than drowners or kikimores,” Geralt found himself saying, “they can’t implant thoughts, just change them, a little.” He paused, trying to find the best way to describe it. “They take away your survival instinct, the urge to fight. It’s what makes them so dangerous: they make their prey docile. It’s easy with cows or deer or elk - all they _are_ is a survival instinct. It’s trickier with humans, and other intelligent beings, because we can rationalise our own survival. To a certain extent.”

“And… witchers?”

Geralt shrugged. “Most witchers? I don’t know.”

Geralt waited for the questions that he knew would come next, the reassurances, the probing. Or perhaps Jaskier would just ignore it - pretend it didn’t matter. Perhaps it _didn’t_ matter. Away from the grip of the fiend’s hypnosis, it certainly didn’t seem to matter to Geralt any more: it was just a fact.

But Jaskier didn’t say anything. They sat in silence for a few moments, and then Jaskier’s hand stretched out, his fingers brushing against Geralt’s. He wasn’t grabbing him, wasn’t demanding or grasping. It was a gesture - small, soft, and questioning.

Geralt took his hand. He could feel Jaskier’s heartbeat in the tips of his fingers, far too rapid.

It was a reassuring gesture. It was reassuring, but too much: too gentle, too kind. He and Jaskier’s relationship was one that was full of touches, so this was nothing new: They shared beds and bathwater, tended wounds, and he’d pulled Jaskier out of the way of danger more times than he could count. But those were borne of necessity - the perils of travelling together for so long. This was something else. It was a choice: a _choice_ that Jaskier was making, right now, to hold onto him.

He wiggled his fingers and freed himself. If Jaskier was disappointed, he certainly didn’t show it.

“I can’t believe I killed it,” he said, after a long silence.

Geralt frowned. In the rush of pain and blood, and then the deep oblivion of meditation, he’d almost forgotten that it was Jaskier who’d taken the beast down and saved his life.

“I can’t believe it either,” he said. “What were you _doing_?”

“Saving you,” Jaskier shrugged, like it was obvious.

“It could have killed you.”

Jaskier scowled at him. His expression was telling enough: he thought Geralt was a hypocrite. Geralt _was_ a hypocrite.

“Says _you_ ,” he said, with a snort.

“I don’t know what I’d have done if it killed you.”

Jaskier’s frown dropped. _Fuck_. Geralt hadn’t meant to say that - he hadn’t realised how _true_ that was. His mind was suddenly full of the image of Jasier leaping from the trees and impaling himself on the fiend’s horns, or being thrown off and trampled under foot, or he too giving in to that gaze and simply allowing the creature to end his life.

It was because Jaskier was _Jaskier_. Because the death of a witcher meant nothing, but the death of a semi-famous bard - and fucking _Viscount_ , to boot - would mean a hell of a lot. There’d be people to tell. There’d be mourning. There’d be wailing and parents and family and friends. There’d be a fucking _body_ to move, because Jaskier - Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove - would certainly _not_ be left to rot on some blasted forest floor in the middle of nowhere.

It wasn’t because the thought of Jaskier’s sparkling eyes turning dull or his skin flowering with blood or his heart slowly, finally stopping made Geralt’s stomach twist with fear, made him want to vomit. It wasn’t because he needed him. It was because _everyone else_ needed him.

“You’d have been… missed,” he said, by way of an explanation to the question he knew was on Jaskier’s lips. He hoped it would do. It _was_ the truth, in a way. _I would miss you_.

Jaskier’s eyes sparkled angrily. “You don’t think _you’d_ have been missed, though? If that fucker had run you through?”

He was wrong, Geralt knew. He knew it in his bones. He didn’t want to have this conversation, but the way Jaskier stared at him made him continue, pouring it out to him like a confession.

“My brothers know what the Path is,” he said. “They would have been disappointed had I died, but they would understand. They wouldn’t mourn. And besides; they have their own Paths, their own lives. They don’t _need_ me. Yennefer equal parts loves and hates me and would have finally been freed of the bind that ties us. The last time we spoke she made her feelings very clear. The Child Surprise isn’t even aware I exist, and Calanthe would _celebrate_ my death, I suspect.”

“So you can rationalise your own death because, what… everyone would be able to just _get on_ with their lives if you weren’t in them?”

“Isn’t that the case?” Geralt said, stoically. “They have their own ties, other people in their lives. I’m not an idiot, Jaskier, I know people would be…” he sought the right word, “ _sad_ , but they have support elsewhere.”

“I, you…” Jaskier spluttered, “that is _not_ the case, no! I can’t speak for anyone else, of course, but if you’d _died_ in that forest today I’d…” his voice trembled, “I don’t know. You said, Geralt, you wouldn’t know what you’d have done if the fiend had killed me. And I don’t know either.“

Geralt paused. “You’d have left me there. That’s what happens to witchers. That’s what you _should_ do, for future reference.”

Jaskier’s face flushed, angrily. “That’s not what I fucking meant!” He cried, “You _bastard_ witcher. You think I’m worried about, about… fucking _corpse disposal?_ What would _I_ do, Geralt? Without you here with me?”

“You’ve got your family. The Academy. You’ve more friends than anyone else I know, and you’re never wanting for company. You would have coped.”

Jaskier’s eyes grew even larger and his mouth hung open uselessly. He was silent, for once. He looked _shocked_ , nearly horrified. Geralt attempted to steer the conversation somewhere lighter.

“Besides,” he continued, casually, “If I’d been killed today you’d be complaining less about your fucking feet all the time.”

Jaskier frowned. “What? You mean, I wouldn’t be following you about?”

“No. You’d take Roach. She’d have been yours. No more blisters…”

Jaskier was suddenly on his feet, the sagging mattress springing up beneath him.

“I just… I need some air.”

Geralt barely had time to blink before he’d sped from the room, the door of the room slamming shut behind him.

~

_Coped?_ _Coped?!_

Jaskier leant against the little rickety fence that edged off what passed for a garden, staring out across the fields. The wood was old and rotten, splinters digging into his palms, but he was barely thinking about that.

 _No more blisters_.

He finally moved, running a hand through his already worried hair. _Fuck_.

Geralt had looked so _nonplussed_ , but it was like he’d shoved one of his swords through Jaskier’s ribs and _twisted_. He was joking about his own death as if it were no more serious than a twisted ankle. Not only that, but he’d as good as promised that if he died on the job that Roach - the single most precious thing in the world to him - would go to Jaskier.

It was too much. It was too much, all at once, and Jaskier hadn’t known how to respond. Worse than that, he was horribly aware that he was only framing it around his own discomfort - his own rapidly spiraling emotions - and _not_ around Geralt, the one who apparently hated his life so much he either wanted to die or didn’t care if he did. As far as Jaskier was concerned, they were one and the same.

He swore under his breath and felt hot tears start to prick at his eyes, then swore again.

 _This isn’t about you,_ he thought, his mind on fire, _shut up, shut up!_

He just needed a moment, just a few minutes, to pull himself back together and get back in there and…

And what? What in all the gods’ names could he possibly say to fix this? It couldn’t _be_ fixed: certainly not over a single evening, in any case. You couldn’t change someone’s mind like that. Not unless you were a horrible mind-altering relict.

He flexed his hands a few times, watching the low wind sweep across the fields, the grass waving. _Right_. Okay. He’d been out here for too long, and—

“Jaskier.”

“ _Ahh_ ello!”

He managed to turn the little shout of surprise into a greeting as he spun around. Geralt had followed him.

“Geralt!” He cried, trying to sound upbeat, “I, ah… I didn’t hear you!”

“Hmm.”

“Sorry, I was on my way back, just… it was a little hot in there, you know? And, um… look at those stars!”

Geralt peered across the fields. “Lovely,” he said, stoically. “Do you want to… go somewhere? There’s a tavern in town.”

Jaskier sighed. He couldn’t face people, right now - but he didn’t want to stand here on the patch of grass either, facing the ringing _nothing_ between them. And he couldn’t go back to the room where the feeling would be even more intense.

“How about we go for a walk?” He suggested instead, glancing again back across the fields. “It’s a lovely night, and…”

“Sure.”

“We can look for shooting stars and—” He registered what Geralt had said. “Oh! Yes, well then…”

He gestured towards the trellised gate, and together they headed back onto the road, walking towards the rolling fields. The wind was cool against Jaskier’s flushed cheeks, a calming respite. Somewhere far away an owl was hooting, and another responding to its cries.

They walked in silence down a dirt track between two fields, until they were far enough away from the town that the lights and noise were muffled and distant, easily ignored. They stopped at a field that had half gone to fallow and half given over with huge, fragrant lavender plants. Jaskier brushed his fingers against the flowerheads, releasing the heady scent.

Next to him, Geralt had a faraway look in his eyes. _Fuck_.

“Geralt,” he said, finally, “look. I need to say something. And I swear to you, I won’t bring it up again, or mention it, or, or ask you anything…” his hands fiddled with the cuff of his shirt, “But if I _don’t_ say it I’ll never forgive myself. And I _know_ , of course, that I can't… I can’t _fix_ this, or change your mind with one chat. That’s now how that works. It’s not what I’m trying to do. It’s just…”

He sighed, aware he was rambling, staring up at the stars.

“You’re important to me, Geralt. And not because you slay beasts and give me inspiration for songs, before you get the wrong impression. You’re important to me _without_ those things.” He turned to him. “My life is richer for having you in it,” he said. “And it would be _incomparably_ lesser without you. Moreso for having had you, if only for a little while. To _know_ you is… I can’t describe it in a way you won’t think is saccharine shite, frankly. But to know you and _lose_ you? It’s unthinkable.”

There was a long silence before Geralt finally responded. “I’m a _witcher_ ,” he said. “Every day you travel with me you could lose me.”

“Well, yes, that’s rather the problem isn’t it. Every day you could just go off and fucking die. And every day I _stay_ it means it’ll hurt more of it _does_ happen.”

“Then why stay?”

“Like I said: you’re important to me.” Jaskier plucked one of the lavender stalks closest to him, twisting it around his hand and crushing the flowers. He swallowed heavily as the delicate purple buds fell apart. “And, rather unfortunately for me, I love you.”

It just… slipped out. He didn’t say it with the expectation of Geralt saying it back or reciprocating his concealed feelings: he’d said it almost out of desperation, an attempt to make Geralt understand just how much he meant to him. It had been foolish: reckless. But _true_ , of course.

The crushed lavender fell to the floor at his feet, and he rubbed the oily residue between fingers. The wind caressed his face, playing in his hair. Geralt remained silent, and Jaskier wished that he could take those words back, suddenly. Something like a laugh bubbled in his chest, but he pressed it down.

“Gods, Geralt,” he said, pressing the lavender into the dirt with the toe of his boot, “I really know how to make things worse don’t—”

A firm grip around his wrist. The feeling of being moved, being tugged - and his utter willingness to _be_ moved. Jaskier didn’t have time to realise what was happening before Geralt was pulling him towards him, his feet scrabbling across the dirt, until their chests were pressed together.

“You don’t make things worse.”

Jaskier swallowed, his heart in his throat. He was overwhelmed by Geralt’s closeness, the firm grip around his arm but with the promise that he’d release him if he asked.

“You’re right,” he continued, and Jaskier found himself lost in those yellow, faintly glowing eyes. “You can’t change it. But…” He brushed a stray hair from Jaskier’s face, letting his hand linger on the side of his jaw. “But you _do_ help. And most of the time there isn’t a fiend fucking with my mind.”

“But those thoughts are still _there_.”

“They are.”

Jaskier leant towards him, pressing their foreheads together. He could feel Geralt’s breath, warm and inviting, playing on his lips.

“I'm… sorry,” Geralt breathed, quietly. “For what happened. It won’t happen again.”

Jaskier’s head snapped back. “Don’t.” He said, as firmly as he dared, “Don’t apologise. Not to me. Not for that. You _tell_ me, okay? Don’t keep those thoughts in.”

“But I _am-”_

“You don’t need to be. If you’re going to apologise for anything, apologise for spitting Swallow all over me. This shirt is _ruined_ , you know. And _one_ of us needs to apologise to the landlady too, for all the mud and blood all over the stairs. And the room. And the sheets.” He sighed. “Fuck. You made a bit of a mess.”

“Sorry.”

“I forgive you,” said Jaskier, graciously. “I don’t know if _she_ will, though…”

“The contract for the fiend was enough to pay twice over for the sheets, _and_ the cost of cleaning,” Geralt muttered. “And we saved the town. She’ll forgive anything for enough crowns.”

“As long as she provides us with a bath, I don’t care if she curses us, frankly.”

“Hmm…”

Geralt leant forwards once more, closing the gap that Jaskier had created, bumping their noses together. He still smelt vaguely of muck, but his breath was warm and tempting and _that_ smelt of him - an undefinable smell that sent hot flutters across Jaskier’s skin.

Their lips brushed, a _whisper_ of a kiss, barely there and full of the promise of more. Jaskier wanted to wrap his arms around Geralt’s shoulders and pull him close and _have_ him, have _all_ of him - but he wanted this delicate, dancing thing just as much. Geralt’s lips moved just a fraction against his, and he felt the hair on the back of his head stand on end.

“Geralt…” He breathed, “Ah—”

“Shall we see about that bath?”

Jaskier grinned against his mouth. “Let’s do that.”

~

Later, when Geralt’s hair was _finally_ free from blood and his skin was no longer clogged with mud, he sent for fresh water - the landlady’s annoyance quickly bartered away with a handful of coins. Jaskier looked at him like he’d gone mad at the extravagance, but for once Geralt had determined that it was worth the extra expense.

The smell of Geralt’s blood and the stink of fiend still clung to Jaskier’s skin, and it was a relief to them both when he lowered himself into the clear, steaming water. He’d made to reach for the washcloth and soap, but Geralt had stayed his hand.

He needed to do it. He couldn’t tell Jaskier _why_ , when he asked - just that he _did_. And Jaskier wasn’t one to turn down a pampering - certainly not at Geralt’s hands - and rested against the edge of the tub with his eyes shut as Geralt gently wiped at his skin with lavender-scented suds.

It was important, Geralt knew, that he kill monsters and save towns and know - deep down - the difference between good and evil so he could stand in the way when he needed to. His worth was his sword, his strength, his lightning reflexes.

Yet as he traced the soft plane’s of Jaskier’s chest, the evidence of the fight washing away beneath the suds and bubbles that clung to his hairy skin, he thought perhaps there might be more. Jaskier’s head drooped backwards and, barely thinking, Geralt pressed a quick kiss to his forehead.

The bard smiled but didn’t open his eyes, and Geralt continued to bathe him, lost in the comfortable simplicity of it all.


End file.
